Issue 109, Winter 1988
“I feel like such a . . . shit.
I rescued this little lost terrier
on Broadway and 90th, mangy little thing
that couldn’t even bark, I took him home,
took him to the vet, nursed him back
to health or almost, then. Labor Day week-
end,—my husband and I are separated, that’s
the thing —I went to Atlantic City with a
friend and when I got back Skippy was dead.
I guess I’d sort of forgotten him, locked
in the kitchen, so much on my mind I forgot
to give him extra water and food and he never
did bark just sort of accepted things. . . .
Look straight up at the ceiling now, I promise
I won’t jab you in the eye.”